


Existence Is God's Pastime

by helens78



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Study, Masturbation, One of My Favorites, Other, Pets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-25
Updated: 2008-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-05 07:48:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A possible look at a character from Synecdochic's <a href="http://www.kekkai.org/synecdochic/sg1/howling/">A Howling In The Factory Yard</a>: spoilers plus making a definite statement where there wasn't one in canon.  Ba'al's adventures with a few different human pastimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Existence Is God's Pastime

**Author's Note:**

> **For anyone who requires warnings on their stories, please see notes about story content at the end.** (I will tell you up front that "masturbation" is an _entirely different section_ from "pets", though.) **Up-front warning:** Cat-on-bird violence (the bird loses).
> 
> Hat tip to [John Bennett](http://www.eburg.com/~vagabond/main/contnew.html) for the title.
> 
> Oh my God, rydra_wong was so much help YOU HAVE NO IDEA. Also thanks to synecdochic not just for Howling, but for many, many thoughts about Goa'ulds, hosts, and how entirely awesome Ba'al is. *g*

Eventually, Ba'al decides that he likes jogging.

Not that he can't take care of the host on his own, of course, but there's something very satisfying about letting the host body do something it was so clearly designed for, taking it out and letting it _fly_.

It doesn't help him understand why Nielson enjoyed it so much. He tries running faster: faster than a Tau'ri could, for longer than a Tau'ri could, just to see what it's like to tax the system.

It takes the better part of a day, and it isn't something he'll be repeating. There's enjoyment and then there's running to the point of sheer and utter bored _mindlessness_.

Ah.

* * *

Swimming is better than jogging; he chalks it up to faint instinct, the subconscious memory of a time before self-awareness. Strange to think of himself having been a larva once, floating in the same suspension that keeps all larval Goa'uld alive until they're implanted into a Jaffa; it's easier to think of himself as having always been what he is, wrapped comfortably around the host's brainstem, linked in so many ways to this body that it's as though they've always been one.

It was always easier to think of himself that way, even before it was true. For a cloned Goa'uld, there's no larval growth stage, no implantation, nothing but suspension tanks and sudden adulthood and implantation into a host who owes his existence--not his continued existence, but his very ability to take breath--to Ba'al's need for him.

Not that the distinction matters much to the host; this host came awake with its old memories, too, its life before subjugation, sublimation, _blending_, and given the choices it's made and the life Ba'al's allowed it to lead, it wouldn't have things any other way. (That, of course, is why the host got to keep its memories in the first place.)

Water puts up more resistance than air, giving Ba'al more opportunity to challenge the host. He can swim harder and exhaust himself further. He can inhale when his body wants to exhale.

He can find out what it's like to drown, if he wants. He could repair minor damage to the lungs without much more effort than it takes to heal a paper cut.

He isn't risk-averse; he wouldn't be the only brother still standing on Earth if he were. But there are some ways he doesn't need to be in over his head.

* * *

He tries everything on the menu at Starbucks and comes away unimpressed; there are better ways to get one's stimulants. He goes back, once or twice, to the coffee shop Nielson frequented, but it isn't the same--caffeine tastes bitter without a shot of sarcasm to sweeten the experience.

Theobromine, he likes. For one thing, the Greek roots amuse him (and if his brothers never took the hint, well, more for him). He spends a few weeks testing different chocolates and comes away with an affection for Switzerland that, he decides, he'll need to follow up with a vacation. At some point. When things are more settled.

There are other stimulants, depressives, legal and illegal, and he's acquired a taste for alcohol in spite of his inability to become inebriated. (It helps with socializing, when he's in a mood to socialize; there's going out for coffee and there's going out for drinks, humans sharing mood-altering chemicals as a means to conversation. It'll take him years to figure out what that says about this society.)

Once he's tried a few, just to see what the humans are on about, he doesn't bother with any more. He knows what the humans are chasing when it comes to these experiences, knows it in a way none of them ever will, and he hates and respects Nielson in equal parts for making sure he'll never know it personally again.

The host doesn't give a damn about any of it, either; it feels the same pang of longing, of _want_, for the sarcophagus that Ba'al does, but it can be bought off. It has short memories like the rest of its species. A little unexpected burst of endorphins will go a long way; Ba'al knows exactly how much to feed it to keep it quiet, calm, doing what it's supposed to. He's got more up his sleeves these days than the occasional opioid peptide, though, and some things work better than others.

* * *

Sex never gets boring.

It can be uncomplicated, body and mind sharing a single goal of getting off, but there are a thousand different ways the body's reactions can conflict and contrast with the mind's (heart's, soul's; the Goa'uld's, even, because certainly Ba'al remembers times when bodies got hard for him, got wet for him, while eyes glowed gold and modulated voices spit curses and threats his way).

Ba'al finds it both amusing and perverse that he enjoys sex more as a man than as a god. A god is always perfect, beautiful, desired; a man makes a promise with his (host's) body, pays it off (or doesn't), and either ends up delightfully sweaty and covered in messy Tau'ri genetic material or else finishes quickly and has takeout Chinese food at home. It's satisfying either way.

The host body remembers solo sessions before it got to become living quarters to a god, and whim drives Ba'al to try it again one day. The weather's rainy. He really doesn't feel like feigning interest in the petty concerns of Tau'ri males right now, let alone the courtship rituals required by Tau'ri females. He has lube nearby, something the host certainly didn't have access to back when it did this often.

The experience is nothing like going to bed with another person--the grip and slide of his fingers is far better than groping touches from someone else--and after he's been at it for a while, he really feels he's gotten the hang of it. Not that he's ever given a damn about being selfish in bed, of course, but this--this is physical self-indulgence on a level he's never experienced before, pleasure brushing up against pleasure until the body trembles and groans and finally, _finally_, sobs with its joy and release.

He thinks the host might fall in love with him all over again just for this. How _interesting_. He'll definitely be making a habit of it.

* * *

There's little difference between humans and housepets, when you get down to it. Feed them, provide shelter, offer the slightest bit of affection and attention, and you have something that will either lay at your feet and demand more or affect a certain amount of disinterest, depending on mood, personality, how hungry it is.

Or sometimes it'll piss on the carpet just to prove it _can_. Ba'al finds the unpredictability fascinating, and spends the occasional hour watching his newest living acquisition explore its surroundings and leave its mark on things--a scratch here, a thorough scent-marking there.

Most of the time, it ignores him. He ignores it back.

It goes through a phase where it tries tripping him every time he stands still for more than a few moments. No luck there, _felis catis_; a minor quadruped, even a graceful one, has no chance of besting Ba'al's reflexes. After a while, Ba'al starts to understand that the interference and challenge is a sign of affection, a way of getting a stroke across its fur while pretending it's merely walking across the room and his legs happen to be an obstacle.

Autonomy is such an intriguing self-delusion for lesser creatures. Ba'al's seen it from the inside out, of course; the host he currently inhabits has spent the occasional decade believing it's on equal footing with him, that his plans are _their_ plans. (Luckily for the host, Ba'al has always found that charming.) And he's seen it in the Tau'ri, people who have believed themselves his allies.

He doesn't leash it; it wouldn't tolerate the bindings, but moreover, he doesn't _want_ to. He doesn't force it to stay inside. It comes back when it's cold or hungry or bored, stays inside when the coyotes are howling. It demands breakfast when Ba'al's just sat down at his computer; it thinks the newspaper he's reading is a perfect resting spot. But it also goes from needing several minutes of rapt attention and specific scratches behind the ears to purring at just a stroke; it sleeps in his bed even when he doesn't, curled up on his pillow.

It's a sunny spring day when it brings home tribute for the first time. One of those tiny brown-feathered birds he's seen in the back garden; the cat sets it down and looks up with wide eyes, and Ba'al indulges it with a few soft pets and compliments about its hunting prowess.

It gets up a few times to play with the bird, lies in wait from the sofa and then pounces when the bird's made a bit of progress. It's entertainment for both him and the cat: the cat's playing with its prey, but it's showing off, too, sharing the experience with him. It leaves a mess, but it's left messes before; Ba'al has people to handle those details.

No game can last forever; in the end, the cat nuzzles at him and then starts the long process of cleaning itself. Ba'al ponders his tribute, and decides it's best to get it out of the house now; there will undoubtedly be other birds. He finds a cloth and gently scoops the tiny sacrifice off the carpet. It's still breathing.

Outside its wings tremble against his hand, but it doesn't have the strength to fight him. It might last a few hours this way. More likely, another of the neighborhood cats would find it; it'd be easy prey for a poor hunter. A quick twist of the wrist and there's no need to worry about that any longer; now it's just a matter of leaving nature to take care of the rest.

He comes back inside and washes his hands. His cat comes up and performs that undulating brush against the backs of his calves again; he glances down at it. The little one's earned its keep for today; he'll see what it does tomorrow.

_-end-_

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes about story content:** This is an unapologetic character study of an alien who has, at one time or another, been a god, a man, a victim, an assailant, a murderer, and other assorted nasty things. If you are bothered by fic that does not try to apologize for its main character's failings, you may want to avoid this story. If you are not okay with cats bringing home small animals to an audience who is more fascinated than horrified, you definitely want to avoid the last part.


End file.
